


Quid Pro Quo

by Sadistrix



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Body Horror, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Offering Sex to Get Out of Trouble, Sexual Dysfunction, Threats of Violence, Undead Reaper - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24148684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadistrix/pseuds/Sadistrix
Summary: He drags Baptiste's head back none too gently, unyielding metal claws curving around the base of his skull and digging into the back of his jaw. He's forced to look up, uncomfortably aware of how easily Reaper could snap his neck or sever his spinal cord - for him, it might not even take a conscious effort - but the immovable mask is just that. Baptiste shudders, still fighting the instinct to look away.“Didn’t think I’d get such a warm welcome when I saw what you did to Cuerva,” Reaper says, darkly amused.
Relationships: Jean-Baptiste Augustin/Reaper | Gabriel Reyes
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27
Collections: Unofficial FFA Unanon Collection





	Quid Pro Quo

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings just in case, but do heed the tags.

Joining Talon was supposed to keep him from having to resort to this, Baptiste thinks, not at all amused by the irony of it all. He sinks to his knees, not daring to make eye contact, and swallows hard. Beneath his hands the mercenary's thighs are rock hard. There's hardly a difference between the curved carbon fiber and where it ends, and that prospect alone chills Baptiste in a way he can't entirely place. He knows he should look up - needs to reach higher, make sure he isn't misunderstood - but can't bring himself to do it.

Baptiste isn't expecting the Reaper to laugh.

"That's your move?" Reaper gloats, one huge clawed glove coming up against the back of his head and smashing Baptiste's face into the space between his thighs. It's hard there too: the kind that suggests even Talon's undead wraith wears full-coverage protective equipment. His nose might not have broken from the impact, but it sure as fuck hurts.

"'s all I've got," Baptiste says, his voice muffled from against Reaper's body armor. He almost dares to suggest this isn't the sort of opportunity that comes around every day, but quickly thinks better of it. "That, and a med kit."

Reaper laughs again: an ugly, painful sounding noise that crashes over Baptiste like a tidal wave. "Pathetic."

He drags Baptiste's head back none too gently, unyielding metal claws curving around the base of his skull and digging into the back of his jaw. He's forced to look up, uncomfortably aware of how easily Reaper could snap his neck or sever his spinal cord - for him, it might not even take a conscious effort - but the immovable mask is just that. Baptiste shudders, still fighting the instinct to look away.

“Didn’t think I’d get such a warm welcome when I saw what you did to Cuerva,” Reaper muses, darkly amused.

He isn’t exactly proud of the reminder, but he’s not surprised either. “I don’t pick fights I can’t win,” Baptiste says, settling for pragmatism. They’d all known the score. And if Reaper takes it for flattery, Baptiste isn’t going to complain about that either.

Reaper looks down at him for a moment more and then one of his claws moves against the back of Baptiste’s neck. It loosens his grip by fractions, but Baptiste doesn’t think for a second he’s been given enough of an opening to do much more than swallow. “Guess you’re not as stupid as I thought.” 

The flicker of… whatever it is that sparks in the pit of Baptiste’s stomach at the thought of Reaper’s tepid approval is gone nearly as quickly as it came. “I’m just full of surprises,” Baptiste deadpans, trying his damndest not to flinch from the unwelcome touch. His knees are aching, heart pounding uncomfortably fast against his ribs, and he’s painfully aware that there’s nothing left up his sleeve if Reaper decides they’re done stalling.

It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. “Surprise me.” Reaper’s thumb comes up behind Baptiste’s ear in a mockery of a caress, the edges of his coat curling inward and enveloping them both in the smoggy haze he wears like a second skin. When it brushes Baptiste’s skin, it’s feather light. He shivers in unthinking reaction.

“Should I buy you dinner first?” Baptiste asks, tightening his grip on Reaper’s thighs. He’s struck by a sudden, unwelcome flicker of familiarity: as terrifying and enigmatic as Reaper is, this much he’s done a hundred times over. 

The mask tilts almost imperceptibly, but when Baptiste reaches for his belt Reaper doesn’t move away. The tendrils of smoke seeping from his coat - and beneath, Baptiste realizes, one more growing unease blending into the panic that’s starting to feel familiar all on its own - cling to him in some twisted mimicry of an embrace. “I could definitely go for a drink,” he adds.

“You talk too much,” Reaper grumbles, but the worn leather of his belt dissolves beneath Baptiste’s fingertips before he’s figured out the trick to get it undone, twisting around his gloved fingers and creeping up all the way to his shoulders before it dissipates completely. 

Baptiste makes the split-second decision that out of all the things he’s internally freaking out about right now, that one’s not going high enough up on the list to rate. Whatever Reaper _is_ that allows him to dissolve and reform on a whim - Baptiste can worry about that later. That is if by some miracle he manages to make it out from under the business end of his claws first.

Far more tellingly, his hips push into the brief touch as Baptiste peels the thick-woven fabric back from his skin. “Been a while?” Baptiste asks before he can think better of it. The smog surrounding them darkens, and he’s all too aware of the continued pressure of Reaper’s claws against his neck. “Uh, I didn’t mean… Guess it’s been a while for me too,” he backtracks, nearly tripping over the words in his hurry to course-correct.

The sharp mask above him tilts again, though Baptiste can’t begin to interpret the motion.

This time the edge of his claws goes almost soft when his fingers move against Baptiste’s neck. It’s definitely a caress this time - or close enough - though Reaper holds himself as stony and threatening as ever. Baptiste is trying not to read too much into it.

Much like he’s trying not to read into the texture of Reaper’s skin beneath his gloves or hauntingly metallic smell of damaged flesh, absurdly grateful for the dark, dense fog that clings to him like a shroud. “Get to it,” Reaper demands, a low rumble that Baptiste feels more than he hears. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, his throat, all the way across his ribs, and Baptiste lets himself indulge in the slightest, frantic flicker of doubt, but he doesn’t dare disobey.

The heat of Reaper’s groin is almost stifling, an electric edge to his skin that takes Baptiste a long moment to place before the warm golden light of a biotic pack springs to mind. But unlike the familiar healing aura it makes his face prickle numbly, a struggle to breathe even before he manages to inhale and light his lungs up the same way. Reaper’s hold tightens and forces Baptiste deeper into the choking fog.

Despite the heat, there’s a clamminess to his skin that Baptiste can only hope he’s imagining. He opens his mouth and Reaper thrusts the head of his cock between Baptiste’s lips, filling his senses with the overwhelming copper-and-salt tang of blood and waxy, soft flesh. He can’t keep the thought of cadavers from his mind; Baptiste gags and then he’s choking on the tainted biotics again.

He thinks he might have grazed Reaper’s cock with his teeth. He’s certainly not off to a good start, coughing and struggling beneath Reaper’s iron grip before he’s even managed to get him hard, but somehow the lack of finesse doesn’t seem to dissuade Reaper.

He laughs, not altogether humorlessly. “First time?”

 _This was your idea,_ Baptiste tries to convince himself. He could be dead already - but delving too far down that line of thought only makes him worry that Reaper already is. Definitely not helping. He shakes his head mutely - as much as Reaper’s grip on his neck allows - and tries not to breathe as he bends forward and places his mouth back around the soft flesh of Reaper’s cock.

There’s no escaping the painful biotic haze or the cloyingly thick scent of congealed blood filling his nostrils. Baptiste closes his eyes and tries to imagine that it’s anyone else in front of him - Morrison, or Reyes, or Reinhardt, one of his Overwatch heroes like they were up on the posters, the source of many a fantasy over the years - and he concentrates on the head of Reaper’s cock, stroking the limp shaft with his fingers as he wills his half-numbed tongue to move.

Reaper makes a grumbling noise and his weight shifts, grip easing again ever so slightly. His claws press up into Baptiste’s hairline. It’s not nothing - and Baptiste is certainly inclined to take what little he can get - but he’s already dreading what happens if he can’t get Reaper off, if he can’t dredge up any possible reason he should be spared Talon’s wrath. Even as the thought occurs to him, Reaper’s other hand closes around Baptiste’s shoulder and clenches tight.

Maybe he’s been doomed to fail from the start.

Baptiste takes the entirety of Reaper’s cock in his mouth, licking and sucking, and while Reaper’s claws continue to dig into the back of his neck, the sting of his nanites have made Baptiste’s lips and tongue swell fatter. He’s slowly going lightheaded from inhaling the toxic haze of whatever biotic weapon Reaper’s skin holds, lungs aching and throat tight.

He works up the nerve to touch Reaper ever so cautiously, and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

Above his cock Reaper’s abdomen is split in two by a thick, keloidal scar that stretches up past the reach of Baptiste’s fingers. He follows the ridged skin for a breathless moment; the placement, the messiness of it… He knows more than enough to guess. “Oh,” Baptiste chokes, forgetting himself in the sudden, fresh wave of horror that washes over him like a tidal wave. He’s paralyzed with his fingers still lined up along that glaring revelation, unsure if he’s about to be sick for real.

Baptiste glances up and the mask is as unreadable as it’s ever been, looming over him, spectre-like, in the darkness. He doesn’t think he’s imagining the steady, continued leak of tainted nanomachine smoke from beneath Reaper’s gear or the way it clings to them both. A shiver creeps up his spine as he watches it seep from the deep cuts of Reaper’s mask. “ _Oh_ ,” Reaper mocks him.

He doesn’t offer any explanation - not that Baptiste expected him to. He takes a deep, gasping breath, and then another. Neither helps. If his lungs haven’t been shredded by Reaper’s biotic haze it’ll be a miracle. Because Baptiste knows how Talon works, maybe more so now than he ever did. If every last part of Reaper hasn’t been engineered into a weapon, he can’t be far off.

“What did they do to you?” Baptiste asks in what’s barely more than a whisper, feeling back along the scar bisecting his belly under the influence of a compulsion he can’t put a name to. There’s a memory lurking in the forefront of his mind of Talon soldiers disappearing into the experimental division only to never be heard from again, the augmented sniper he’d been called in to patch up who couldn’t stop herself screaming at the slightest touch, the whispers he’d only started to give credence to after escaping Talon the first time...

Reaper growls a warning. “I liked you better when you were choking on my cock.” His skin burns with an unnatural heat even through Baptiste’s gloves, malefic smoke thickening around them until Baptiste can barely see. It stings his face and makes his eyes water and Baptiste has the single coherent thought of ‘that’s it, this is how it ends’.

His world narrows to the kind of tunnel-vision Cuerva and his team had forced him to: self-preservation at all costs, as numb as his exposed skin is from Reaper’s nanites. And though Baptiste’s hands are shaking with unspent adrenaline, he presses them back against Reaper’s skin. “I’ll get back to that then, yeah?” The ease with which the words leave his mouth surprises even him.

The mask angles ever so slightly and Baptiste can feel the weight of his unseen gaze. He takes a chance and flicks his tongue out over the head of Reaper’s cock, abandoning the scar that had stopped him in his tracks to trace the cut of his hip.

Reaper’s hand tightens with bruising strength over Baptiste’s shoulder and he lets out a heavy, shuddering exhale that somehow manages to make Baptiste’s stomach clench despite every last one of his misgivings. He tugs Baptiste’s face back between the swell of his thighs and Baptiste repeats the motion. Again, and again, until Reaper makes that same grumbling noise as he had before, not trying to fuck his face so much as chasing the press of his hands and tongue, and every last bit of fear left singing through Baptiste’s body has narrowed down to that same single-minded determination.

He adjusts his grip, pressing his thumb up behind Reaper’s balls, and Reaper surprises him by letting his thighs spread further to accommodate. He’s still not fully hard, but while he’s reacting to every move Baptiste makes with the kind of unspoken urgency that suggests he’s at least getting _something_ out of this, Baptiste can live with it. That’s the goal, at least.

“There,” he hisses suddenly when Baptiste increases the pressure on his taint, and it occurs to Baptiste in a belated way that Reaper’s been awfully willing to play along despite his otherwise entirely terrifying demeanor. He wonders how long it’s been since someone else touched him and then drops that line of thought immediately. It’s not going to end anywhere Baptiste wants to be. He settles for humming a wordless agreement and swallowing around the soft length of Reaper’s cock, only barely avoiding coughing and choking again at the answering burn of nanites burrowing into his throat.

Reaper’s thigh trembles from beneath his other hand, and Baptiste rubs it absentmindedly, far more concerned with forcing his mouth to move. He’s not sure how much longer he can keep this up. Pins and needles prickle at his toes from how long he’s been on his knees, tears streaming down his face even when he tries to close his eyes against the toxic smoke leaking from Reaper’s skin. He pulls away to cough once and then he can’t stop. It’s not even a surprise when the sharp, coppery taste of fresh blood sticks in the back of his throat, and when Baptiste spits he can taste it.

He mumbles a curse through numb lips, and then feels Reaper’s grip on his neck disappear only to force his chin up a moment later. The back of his claws sweep over Baptiste’s lips and Baptiste squints up at him just to confirm that they come back bloody. Maybe Reaper doesn’t need the claws or his shotguns or god only knows what else to kill him. Baptiste stares up at the blood-stained claws and sharp mask looming from behind them and wonders if he’s done exactly what Reaper wanted him to from the start.

“Well that’s interesting,” Reaper says eventually. From his tone, it’s as casual an observation as the weather. Smoggy, with a chance of murder. Figures that it wouldn’t matter to him one way or another. Baptiste shuts his eyes and leans his head against the one of the carbon fiber plates covering Reaper’s thighs, lightheadedness overtaking him for the moment.

Baptiste is all too aware of his own blood filling his mouth, dripping from the corners of his mouth and smearing all over Reaper’s balls when he finally dares to pick up where he left off. That doesn’t seem to be a deterrent either. Reaper gives a little snort that might have been laughter, but doesn’t protest or move to pull Baptiste off of him.

It’s definitely sloppy now if it wasn’t already, less a concerted effort at giving a blowjob as it is desperately mouthing at whatever Baptiste can reach and using his still gloved hands as much as he thinks he can possibly get away with. He’s not dying here; that’s the only thought left in his mind.

“No wonder you’re chasing after the dregs of Overwatch,” Reaper says, decidedly menacing this time. Maybe even furious. His claws pierce Baptiste’s shoulder, pinpricks of sensation around his jaw suggesting they might have drawn blood there too. “They never knew when to quit either.”

His grip goes soft again and then it's gone altogether, but before Baptiste can be grateful for the reprieve he's sent slamming back against the pavement with a heavy boot to the chest. "I know where you're headed _and_ who gave you your intel," Reaper adds, right when Baptiste thought his heart rate might eventually drop sometime this year. He does up his pants with a one-handed efficiency that might as well be one last bit of mockery. It's all Baptiste can do to lay there trying to force his lungs to pull in oxygen and not choke on his own blood in the process, blinding sparks overwhelming what little vision he has left.

When Reaper steps over him - in triplicate, though he's pretty sure that's just the head trauma - Baptiste can only wheeze in response. "Tell Ziegler I'll see her soon. 

"If you manage to make it."


End file.
